Touch
by fawkes21
Summary: The investigation into a centuries-old legend takes a deadly turn as Sherlock, John, and Lestrade learn that sometimes reality is worse than anything the imagination can create.
1. A Shot in the Dark

**Author's Note: I don't own much. I don't own the characters. I don't own the reference I make to an old Scottish prayer. I do own the *cough* poem at the beginning (but don't hold that against me). I also own any formatting mistakes (it's nice to know that after ten years, still refuses to cooperate with me).**

**The "legend" that the story is based upon doesn't exist. Or, if it does, I don't know about it. I don't live in the UK so please forgive my complete ignorance about geography, slang, and the like.**

* * *

_If you're in Damread late at night_

_You're never expected to return_

_Your fate is sealed, your time is up_

_Under the cursed moon you'll burn_

_Where the sun never shines and the wind never blows_

_Many a good soul has been lost_

_The foundation laid on blood and bone_

_Stay away from there at all cost_

_~"Damnation" by S. Charles_

The town of Damread, buried deep in the English countryside, was steeped in mystery and legend. The three men making their way through the crushing darkness to reach this destination knew the folklore. They also knew stories were just that – stories. Much like fairy tales and fables before them, the legend of Damread was little more than a lesson to children about the dangers of being too curious and taking foolish risks. As they pushed forward, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Greg Lestrade were all secure in their knowledge that the childhood world of make-believe was far behind them and they were firmly present in the verity of adulthood.

They forgot one thing, as adults are wont to do:

Sometimes the stories are true.

And sometimes the reality is far more terrifying than the imagination.

* * *

Damread was cold, desolate, dark. Small houses, each more dilapidated than the last, were scattered about like chess pieces. Tucked away in a valley where the sun never seemed to quite reach, the town was the remnants of a lifetime long since passed. No one knew what happened to the inhabitants– it was as if they had simply gone to bed one night and disappeared before morning. Time had ravaged the town of its beauty and vandals had done the rest. The town was the source of great speculation – historians had been trying to find answers for the better part of a century. But no one was ever able to conclusively determine what happened. One day the town had been teeming with life, the next it was vacant, abandoned, and forgotten. Suggestions to demolish and rebuild had yielded no results; there was an unease and a sense of foreboding that halted any efforts before they could start. No one wanted to breathe new life into the town but no one quite knew why. Something always stopped them. Something that couldn't be seen, couldn't be touched. So Damread remained as it had always been, a graveyard of hopes and dreams.

Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in folktales and legends. Nor did he believe in ghoulies or ghosties or long-leggedy beasties or things that go bump in the night. He did however believe that there was a solution to any puzzle. The more complicated the mystery, the more certain he was that he would be the one to solve it.

His most recent bout of boredom had left him willing to entertain almost any possibility if it would so something to release him from the monotony. As he read and reread every book on his bookshelf, he stumbled across a poem from his youth that he had long since forgotten. Revisiting the tale of Damread had piqued his interest. A quick search told him that the years since his childhood had generated more questions than answers. The more recent disappearance of people who had ventured into the forsaken town had been enough for him to decide that solving the nearly century old mystery would relieve the doldrums.

It hadn't taken much to convince John that Damread would be worth investigating. He was (though he would never admit it) just as bored as Sherlock was and would bite at any morsel of adventure that was dangled in front of him. His blog had grown stagnant lately and if there was anything that was guaranteed to generate hits it was a good old-fashioned ghost story. Though John himself was not a believer in ghosts, he was savvy enough to know that there were plenty of people who would salivate over this legend like a dog on a bone. Besides, it was something so different from what they normally investigated that it was sure to garner them loads of new prospects. Sherlock would dismiss almost all of these new cases naturally, but at least they would have new options to choose from.

Suspecting Lestrade might be harder to convince, Sherlock had ambushed him at his office, throwing the closed door open without pausing to knock. Lestrade knew that this sudden appearance, with a poor facsimile of coffee in hand and John in tow, could only mean one thing: Sherlock wanted something.

"Clear your schedule; we're going to be out of town this weekend," declared Sherlock by way of greeting.

John let out an exasperated sigh. "What did I _just_ finish saying not twenty seconds ago?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Putting it in the form of a question would just suggest that he has a choice in the matter, which he doesn't."

"Well you could at least make him think he is coming along by choice," John said pointedly.

"Making it sound like a question just means he's going to argue and-"

Lestrade cleared his throat. "You do know 'he' can hear you, right?"

John and Sherlock shifted their gaze to the man behind the desk.

Lestrade continued, "And since I know that having the two of you show up in my office uninvited and unannounced inevitably leads to a situation that I regret, how about you just get to the point and tell me what in the bloody hell you're talking about?"

Sherlock fired off the answer in his typical machine-gun fast, pausing-to-breathe-is-for-the-weak style: "John and I are going to investigate a series of disappearances in Damread so that I can disprove a hundred year's worth of legends and stories and John can write a blog that will probably be mediocre as usual but will appeal to the foolish people who find these things interesting and you're going to come along with us mainly because we need your car but also because John thinks that spending a weekend in the remote nowhere alone with me is going to result in his finally having a homicidal break and besides you know that if you say no to us Mycroft is just going to show up at your door telling you to go and he doesn't take no for an answer so let's cut the niceties and just say that you'll meet us around four on Friday shall we?"

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for a long moment, allowing his brain to catch up to Sherlock's words. He took a sip of the coffee-flavored water (that he immediately spit back out). While he was trying to formulate a response, John muttered, "My blog is not mediocre," from the corner, with some indignation.

Seeing Sherlock opening his mouth to respond, Lestrade jumped in before the two flatmates got into a row in his office.

"Just to be clear: you expect me to give up my free time – of which I have precious little – to baby-sit the pair of you while you go on a ghost hunt?"

"There's no such thing as ghosts Lestrade; don't be daft," Sherlock snorted derisively.

John interjected, "But the disappearances are very real. At least five people have gone missing in the last year."

Lestrade leaned back in his chair and mused, "I've heard the legends and the stories – people's watches all stopping at the exact same time, unexplained nosebleeds, blackouts. And we all grew up being warned about naughty children sneaking into the village and vanishing – my mates and I used to believe it was because they got eaten by a bunch of crazed cannibals who lived there. But none of it was ever _real_. If people are legitimately going missing, maybe – and I can't believe I'm about to say this – there is something worth looking in to."

As Sherlock smiled triumphantly, a still skeptical Lestrade looked to Watson for reassurance.

"Oh come on," cajoled John, "It'll be a nice change to investigate something other than murderers and jewel thieves and con artists."

Lestrade rubbed his brow, still not wholly convinced. With a slight shake of his head, he turned back to his mountain of papers, effectively dismissing them. Without looking up he called to them as they left, "This is going to be a disaster, isn't it?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Of course not. It might even be fun."

As they left, Lestrade muttered to himself, "I really need to start locking my door."

* * *

Four days later, Sherlock and his two companions – one willing, one decidedly less so - found themselves leaving their car behind to take the road less traveled that led into the darkest recesses of the valley, torch lights bobbing in the dark like ships on the sea.

That night, the only light came from a vacant moon that forced its way through the fog like an ominous warning. The light hardly touched the ground, casting sinister shadows, the kind that morph and shift and play tricks on the mind. A fine film of clouds blanketed the indigo sky, hiding the stars from sight. The day's rain had given way to the damp musty smell of decay. It was as if the world was rotting, falling off in chunks. The mud, thick as wet cement, held footsteps just a second too long, threatening entrapment. The silence was deafening. There was no forlorn cry of an animal, no fierce whisper of the wind. There was only nothing. The absence of sound, of any sound, was oppressive. The silence hung thick and heavy in the air like a shroud and made even the teensiest of hairs on the back of the neck stand at high alert.

Something was wrong here.

Something was terribly, terribly wrong.

If Sherlock Holmes, observer extraordinaire, noticed that anything was amiss he either dismissed it as not being interesting enough to devote another nanosecond of his time to or he willfully ignored it in favor of trying to look in all directions at once.

"Remind me again: what part of coming here at night seemed like a good idea?" groused Lestrade as he squinted, his light barely penetrating the heavy mist.

Sherlock's own light zigged and zagged as he scanned the vast murkiness. "Because by all accounts, the really strange stuff happens at night."

Lestrade snorted. "Right. These 'accounts' – would those be the same ones being told around campfires and in pubs? Truly the model of legitimacy."

"Oh come on Greg," John jumped in, "you said so yourself: if people are disappearing than there might be something more to this than just stories cooked up to scare children."

"Still don't see why couldn't have at least _started_ while it was like out," grumbled Lestrade as he stumbled over the uneven ground.

They kept pushing forward until Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, causing John to slam into him.

"Ow! Can't you give some warning before you decide to test your brakes-"

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed. His body was rigid, fixating like a dog that just spotted a squirrel. "Did you see that?"

All three torches shone into the direction Sherlock was looking.

"What did you see?" John asked, his voice quiet and even.

Sherlock's head twitched slightly. "I- I could swear I saw….." He let out a slow breath. "Something just moved behind that house. I'm sure of it…" his voice trailed off as he began to make his way towards what he had thought he saw.

John and Lestrade shared uneasy looks but followed him, bringing them ever closer to a decrepit house. The windows were boarded up, one shutter hanging at a grotesque angle like a botched amputation. The roof had been beaten down and stripped by years of abuse from the elements. The scarred, red wooden door was a gaping wound of the pain the house bore. After pausing a moment in the vaguely ominous presence of the house, Sherlock squared his shoulders and headed straight for the door. His hand landed on the doorknob and a quick twist revealed that it was unlocked. Before he could open the door more than a sliver, Lestrade nearly bowled John over to knock Sherlock's hand away and snap the door shut.

"Jesus, Lestrade, what-"

"I know you're not stupid so I have to assume you're out of your damn mind," Lestrade growled. "You are not seriously going to just go breezing in to a house where you _just_ told us you thought you saw someone lurking about. What if there _is_ somebody in there? What if they're armed?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to push pass but Lestrade was having none of it. He dug in and refused to move. "Oh come _on_ Lestrade! Mysterious figures in the dark – this is the exact kind of thing people have been reporting for years! This is why we're here."

"And some of those reports have ended in disappearances and possibly death. I think we can afford to take a minute to come up with a plan instead of just rushing headlong into a potentially dangerous situation"

Sherlock was growing exasperated. "If we don't go now then whatever I saw might be gone! We need to go in there now!"

Lestrade swatted Sherlock's hands away. "No, we need to be smart about this. We're all alone out here – this is not the time for your stupid risks!"

"Fine. Then give me your gun so I can protect myself from myself," snapped Sherlock. The sensible part of his brain knew Lestrade was right but the inquisitive side was gnashing its teeth with impatience.

There was a long pause. "I don't have my gun," admitted Lestrade, as it was just dawning on him that perhaps Sherlock was not the only one with poor planning skills.

Sherlock stopped moving momentarily and stared at Lestrade incredulously. "You're kidding."

Lestrade bit his bottom lip and averted his eyes. "I didn't expect to actually find anything so…."

"Holy hell, Lestrade, what kind of Detective Inspector are you? If I didn't wonder how you remained employed before, I'm starting to now…"

John tuned out, the voices fading like embers of a dying fire. His torch swept the perimeter of the house, searching for any movement, anything that didn't belong. He thought he saw a flutter of movement behind the barricaded glass it was gone in a blink. He couldn't shake the unease that rolled over him like waves.

"Something's not right Sherlock" said John quietly, the faintest hint of dread creeping into his voice. His well-trained eyes scanned the barren landscape. Someone – some_thing_ – was watching them; he could feel the invisible eyes from all directions.

Lestrade, who had continued to shift and weave like a boxer to keep Sherlock away from the door, stopped moving when he saw John cock his head to the right, just slightly, listening for something that only he could hear.

"What is it?" Lestrade whispered. Before John could answer, Sherlock took advantage of the distraction and snaked his arm around Lestrade to twist the doorknob. The 'click' echoed in the silence like a gunshot and even as Lestrade was grabbing for his coat, Sherlock had slipped past him into the inky blackness of the house.

"Christ!" muttered Lestrade sharply as he followed, years of training taking over as he assessed every door, every corner, every shadow.

"What is wrong with you?" he hissed at Sherlock. "What if somebody's here?"

Sherlock turned towards the stairs, "Hello?" he boomed. "Is anyone here?"

Silence was the only reply.

Sherlock spun, a smile that was probably supposed to be reassuring but instead conveyed derision on his face. "You see? Nothing to worry about". He started up the stairs.

Lestrade momentarily debating hurling his torch at Sherlock's retreating back but instead shone it into the abyss of the hallway as John made his way across the threshold behind him.

"Think this is the kitchen down here," he commented to no one in particular as he began to shuffle forward, his eyes and light drawn to the skeletal remains of a chandelier that hung inelegantly overhead.

He had gone exactly seven steps when he felt a faint pressure on his ankle. He realized, half a second too late, that he should have been looking down instead of up.

A deafening bang.

The acrid scent of gunpowder.

White hot pain.

And blood.

So much blood.


	2. Behind the Mask

**Author's Note: I've been writing scripts for so long that I think I've forgotten how to write good, captivating prose. This story is my attempt at "cross-training" my writing muscles. Feel free to comment on the good, the bad, and the ugly.**

**The characters are the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat – in other words, lots of people who aren't me.**

* * *

_But I'm not waking up each morning with forgiveness I can use__  
__Oh I'm careless, and I'm cruel, but I'm still easily bruised_

_~ Blue Rodeo, "Bulletproof"_

The gunshot resonated in the hallway long after the bullet had left the chamber. Sherlock had been halfway up the crippled staircase when the shot rang out and dropped to his knees, his torch clattering down the steps behind him leaving fractured beams in its wake. John had flattened himself against the wall in the moment of the blast, the memories of Afghanistan, long since dormant, rising like bile in the back of his throat. But with the memories came the well-honed reactions and he had sprung into action before the echo had even ceased.

John had approached to the room where the shot had originated and carefully swept the small living room with his light, his head just barely peering around the corner. There was no one there. His light caught the faint glint of the trip wire that ran just above the floor and his eyes traced it back to the shotgun that was nearly invisible from where it was wedged under the arm of an old wingtip chair. John checked the gun; the chamber was empty. It had housed only one bullet.

One bullet that was buried somewhere in Lestrade's side.

In the mere seconds it had taken John to determine and neutralize the source of the shot, Sherlock had cleared the stairs in a single leap and dropped next to the DI who was writhing on the filthy floor, gasping like a fish out of water.

"John!" Sherlock's voice was urgent. He couldn't clearly make out the severity of the wound but he could tell that the blood seeping into the knees of his trousers was almost black from the squalid ground.

The weapon no longer a threat, John's medic training kicked in and he focused his attention on Lestrade. Shoving his torch into Sherlock's hands, the unspoken instruction to aim the light at the wound, he gently pushed Lestrade's blood-stained hands away and inspected the injury.

"Caught him on the side, on an angle. Doesn't look like it passed right through. Shallow enough to miss anything vital, deeper than a graze. Buckshot. We need to get this cleaned out."

Lestrade was keening in discomfort as John's hand probed the damaged skin.

"What do you have with you?" asked Sherlock, forcing himself to drown out the cries of distress. He had to stay focused.

"My field medic kit. Not much in it but it's better than nothing," John said, still examining the wound.

Sherlock leapt to his feet and darted into the kitchen, his eyes assessing this makeshift operating theater. He swept the cobweb-covered dishes from the scarred wooden table. He flung the chairs into the corners of the room, clearing a workspace. He was back at Lestrade's side in an instant, silently apologizing for what was to come.

"Help me lift him up," he instructed John. "The table has got to be cleaner than this floor."

Together they lifted the older man, wincing as his body contorted in protest at the movement. They lay him on the table, John by his side and Sherlock across the table near Lestrade's head.

John absently pulled the chain of the dingy light bulb that was dangling over his improvised operating table. The light it bathed them in was, like everything in this godforsaken place, yellowed and damaged by time. Still, it was better than trying to work blind.

"Just breathe Lestrade," Sherlock instructed in a terse voice as he shed his coat and rolled up his sleeves.

A quick inventory of the cupboards yielded a chipped ceramic bowl, a couple filthy rags, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Sherlock shook the bottle slightly, crinkling his nose. He didn't even want to begin to consider how long it had been sitting there. He turned back to the table with his meager offerings. John had dug his medical kit out of his pack and was rifling through for anything that might be of use. He had a stack of gauze pads, a roll of gauze wrap, a pocket-sized torch, scissors, and surgical tweezers. A couple of rubbing alcohol pads would have to suffice for cleaning the tweezers.

"Think this will help with cleaning the wound?" offered Sherlock, extending the ancient whiskey bottle. John's eyes flicked from the bottle to Lestrade, who was watching them intently.

"Unfortunately, yes," came John's answer.

At the admission, Lestrade let out a groan and dropped his head back. "That's going to hurt, isn't it?"

No answer told him all he need to know. "Alright, get on with it then."

Sherlock unscrewed the bottle and, before handing it to John, extended it to Lestrade. "Something to take the edge off?"

Lestrade weakly attempted to lift his arm off the table to take the bottle but couldn't muster the energy. Sherlock moved to help him, one hand holding his head up, the other holding the bottle to his lips.

"Just a sip," warned John, taking final stock of his materials.

A sip was all it took. The moment the liquid passed his throat, Lestrade's eyes began to water and he was sure a hole was being burned in his esophagus. The upshot was that a not-wholly-unpleasant feeling of warmth began to run through him.

"Oh God, that tastes like turpentine!" he gagged.

"How would you know what turpentine tastes like?" Sherlock passed the bottle to John and balled his coat up into a crude pillow before helping Lestrade ease his head back down.

Lestrade ignored him and focused on pushing down the rising panic that was coursing through his veins at the thought about what was going to happen next.

"What do you need me to do?" Sherlock asked John quietly. John looked surprised at the question; he wasn't sure Sherlock had _ever_ asked him what to do before.

"This is your show," Sherlock acknowledged. "This is one time that I'm willing to admit that you know more than me. Tell me what to do."

Filing the comment away for future leverage (assuming, of course, we get out of this, he thought), he straightened his shoulders and took charge.

"I need you to help hold him down," he directed. "Keep him as still as possible."

As Sherlock moved back to the head of the table, across from John, he became aware of Lestrade's breathing. It was hard and fast, belying his fears about the situation.

"Hey," he whispered, leaning over the detective inspector, "it's going to be fine. John knows what he's doing."

A wave of fresh pain washed over him.

"It hurts, Sherlock."

The statement was filled with a vulnerability and raw honesty that Sherlock had never heard from Lestrade before. He suddenly felt at a complete loss. He wasn't the comforting type. Yet here he was, forced into a roll that that he was uncharacteristically unconfident in. He knew he was supposed to find the right thing to say, the thing that would assuage Lestrade's fears and help ease his pain. But for the first time, words didn't come to him. They swirled in his brain like snowflakes – every time he tried to grab onto one, it melted away.

Desperate to do something – anything – that might help, he snagged his scarf from the counter where he had tossed it, and twisted a three-inch section of fabric.

"Bite down on this," he said.

Lestrade's dark eyes met his, a sad combination of pitiful and frightened. Never breaking the gaze, Sherlock helped nestle the fabric between Lestrade's teeth. He stood behind Lestrade's head, noting how the older man's eyes followed him. He reached his hands towards Lestrade's chest.

"Take my hands," he commanded softly.

Lestrade limply pulled his hands towards Sherlock. Sherlock reached down and caught them in his own, folding them over Lestrade's chest. He leaned forward, shifting his weight onto Lestrade, pinning him down.

"Just keep looking at me, okay?" he whispered, his eyes never breaking contact with Lestrade's. Lestrade nodded faintly.

His gaze never wavering, he advised John, "Do it."

John had been observing the interaction with quiet awe but knew there would be time to dissect it further once Lestrade was in better condition. With steady hands, he cut the shirt away to expose the wound. He placed the small torch between his teeth, the light aimed squarely at its target. Hating himself for the pain he knew he had to inflict, he poured the whiskey over the gaping hole in Lestrade's side.

The pain that tore through Lestrade was as hot as fire and spread as twice as fast. It radiated through skin and muscle and nerve and bone. He heard a muted screaming, the cry of a wounded animal, but his agonized mind was incapable of registering that the sound was coming from him. His back arched, every fiber and sinew straining to escape the unbearable torture. He clung to Sherlock's hands like a lifeline, desperate for an anchor to any measure of comfort.

The muffled wailing behind the scarf, the bone-crushing desperation of his grip, and the twisted mask of agony on his face was enough to break even the hardest of hearts. Sherlock felt a dull ache somewhere deep in the most secret recesses of his soul, the place that he closed off from the world. Something about Lestrade's utter despair and his complete reliance on them was boring a hole through his stony façade.

John was grateful for the torch that was clenched between his teeth because he feared that without it he too might be letting out a guttural moan at the hurt that he was exacerbating in his efforts to help. He picked up the tweezers and began the arduous task of plucking buckshot from the laceration.

The bite of the tweezers, sharp as fangs, was more than Lestrade's battered body could handle. After several long moments, he let out a great shuddering groan and slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

Sherlock eased Lestrade's hands to rest at his sides and quickly checked his pulse with cramped fingers. Satisfied with what he found, he moved to John's side, easing the torch from his tense jaw.

"Thanks," murmured John without looking up. He stretched his aching jaw muscles while he continued to work, dropping pieces of buckshot into the cracked bowl beside him.

Sherlock held the light steady, watching John work in silence. He had never seen John in action and he couldn't help but be impressed at how easily the skillful fingers maneuvered the miniscule cavity. Even with poor visibility and even worse working conditions, John's abilities as a doctor were evident.

"Do you ever miss being out in the field?" Sherlock inquired softly.

"Sometimes. Being a doctor just always felt…_right_, you know? But I don't miss getting shot at." A small smirk tugged at his lips. "Can't miss getting shot at – spend enough time with you and it's bound to happen."

The words, meant in jest, stung Sherlock. "Do you think this" —he gestured to Lestrade's prone form with his free hand— "was my fault?"

For the first time, John turned to look at him. "What? No. Of course not. Sherlock, I was _joking_. I wasn't even referring to this. You're not to blame for Lestrade getting shot."

As he resumed working, Sherlock mumbled, more to himself than to John, "I blame myself."

John didn't respond. He didn't have to. He knew Sherlock wasn't looking for comfort; he just needed to release his guilt.

After what felt like an eternity John lay the tweezers down. "That's the best I can do here. I got a lot of it out. Hopefully it was enough," he sighed.

Sherlock set the torch down and helped John pack the wound with the sterile gauze. Wrapping additional layers of gauze around Lestrade's midsection to hold everything in place proved more challenging but in the end, John was content with their handiwork. Through everything, Lestrade remained unconscious. John took a quick survey of his vitals and was satisfied that he was stable for the time being.

"I think it's best to stay here until morning," he suggested. "We can figure out our next move once it's light out."

Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "Should we move him?"

John pondered for a moment. "I think so. If we move him to the floor here" —he indicated the space behind him— "we can see front door. We'll take turns keeping watch."

"Agreed. I'm going to see if I can find something we can use to make this floor a little more comfortable."

"Be careful," John warned as he turned his attention to their packs, rifling through for anything they could use.

Sherlock returned moments later with a couple of moth-eaten sheets he found covering an old trunk (that was empty, much to his chagrin) in one of the bedrooms. He had also pulled down the thick drapes that had been hanging in upstairs window.

"What have we got?" he asked John, jerking his head to the contents of the packs that littered the floor near the counter.

"Not much. A couple of bottles of water, some cereal bars, a penknife I'd forgotten I packed, an emergency blanket, candles and matches, and two flares," John replied, systematically going through each item.

Assembling their meager arsenal in one corner, they set about using the sheets and drapery to create a pair of crude beds, one beside the table, the other several feet away in the corner.

As they moved Lestrade from the table to the floor he stirred slightly but did not awake. Sherlock reaffixed his coat over top of the unconscious man in a feeble attempt to keep him warm.

John patted Sherlock's shoulder. "Why don't you sleep for a bit? I'll take the first watch. I want to see how he's doing when he wakes up."

It wasn't until that moment that the stress of the past few hours caught up to Sherlock and he realized how exhausted he was. He put up no argument as he nestled down into the corner. John was leaning back against the counter by Lestrade's legs, the front door clearly in his line of vision.

The adrenaline abating, both men wearily tried to settle their frayed nerves. Despite the fact that he was drained, Sherlock's mind wouldn't let him rest.

"What the hell is going on here?" he mused. "Why would someone rig up the gun like that? What are they protecting?"

John shrugged slightly. "Who knows? Everything in the place is covered in a layer of dust and dirt – it could have been there for years. Maybe someone's been squatting here and they want to keep people like us out. Maybe someone just has a really sick sense of humor."

Sherlock shook his head even though John wasn't looking at him. "I don't think so. That gun was rigged so that it would wound, not kill. It was a warning. I just…." He trailed off as John slowly swiveled his head, staring intently at the table. "What is it?"

John slowly climbed to his feet. Suddenly wide awake, Sherlock did the same. "John? Talk to me? What are you seeing?"

"The light…" John's voice was barely a breath in the icy air.

"What?" Sherlock realized John was staring, not at the table, but at the solitary light bulb that was swaying slightly in the drafts that found their way in from cracks in the windows.

"The light," he repeated, more firmly. He turned to face Sherlock, fearful realization on his face. "Why does a house that's supposed to have been abandoned for almost a hundred years have electricity?"

The question hung heavy in the air, its implication snapping through them like a bolt of electricity.

Almost simultaneously, they lunged for the cord, flicking the light off and plunging them into darkness.

It was John who broke the apprehensive silence, voicing their worst fear, making it real.

"We're not alone here."


	3. No Rest for the Weary

**Author's Note: I'm not a doctor. I am married to one but since I am unwilling to sit through what would likely be an hour long lecture, I'll take responsibility for any and all factual errors.**

**I don't own the characters. I have no money. Please don't sue.**

* * *

_Oh mother tell your children__  
__Not to do what I have done__  
__Spend your lives in sin and misery__  
__In the House of the Rising Sun_

_~The Animals, "House of the Rising Sun"_

Sherlock Holmes was a man on edge.

He was not used to looking over his shoulder, jumping at every noise, or questioning the shadows. It was unlike him to be as tense and coiled as a cat about to pounce. He didn't much care for feeling this way. More to the point, he was annoyed at himself for feeling like this. _Other_ people experienced pesky emotions. Not him. He thrived on danger and uncertainty; it excited and energized him.

Normally he would have relished the situation he found himself in – mysterious town, booby traps, being watched. Instead, he was cowering in a darkened kitchen, watching the front door with trepidation that it might open. With nothing but his thoughts for company, he had long-since deduced why this particular situation made him feel the exact opposite of what he usually felt.

It most likely had to do with the stricken man on the floor beside him.

Sherlock could count the people he cared about on one hand. He might have even gone so far as to call them friends. But since Reichenbach, since Moriarty, he was more reticent than ever to admit that he felt an affection for anyone – caring about people lead to people getting hurt. He had vowed to compartmentalize his feelings for his friends, to put an unseen distance between them.

Because he didn't want to feel the way he had felt that day, so many months ago.

The way he felt now.

Lestrade had stirred several times since Sherlock had taken over the watch from John but he hadn't awoken. John had managed to get the bleeding under control so there was little more they could do at this point other than make him comfortable and keep an eye on him. It was an all-around bad situation.

A situation that Sherlock knew he was responsible for.

He had allowed a tiny crack in his venerable façade, a crack that was enough to let Lestrade in. He would never admit it out loud (and certainly not to Lestrade) but he liked the detective inspector. He was a good man who didn't just tolerate Sherlock; he believed in him. He had become a trusted ally and yes, friend. And because of this, he was now gravely injured. Sherlock mentally vowed that if they all managed to survive this, he would never do anything so patently stupid again.

It was the closest Sherlock had ever gotten to prayer.

A low groan broke through the roar of his thoughts.

Sherlock pushed himself off of the wall and moved to sit beside Lestrade. The daylight was still in its infancy but Sherlock could make out Lestrade's open, slightly unfocused eyes.

"How do you feel?" asked Sherlock softly.

Lestrade closed his eyes, taking a mental inventory. "Everything hurts," he offered.

"Could you be a little more specific?"

Lestrade sighed, resenting the concentration this was taking. "Right side feels like it's being pulled apart. Pressure in my chest, like there's an elephant sitting on it. Headache, bad one. Head feels kind of fuzzy too, like it's full of cotton."

"Cotton?"

"Yes, cotton," Lestrade replied. "You know, when it's hard to focus and your thoughts are all sort of blurry?"

Sherlock rocked back on his heels and said, "No, I can safely say I do _not_ know what that's like. Are you sure it has anything to do with your injury? I'd imagine that's what it's like in your head on a daily basis."

"Well we can't all have your brain now, can we? Imagine how much more obnoxious and overbearing the world would be if we did," retorted Lestrade, without any of his usual bite.

They lapsed into silence for several moments. Sherlock found himself at a loss for words, an almost unheard of occurrence. He wished John was awake. John would know what to say. Sherlock didn't do "comforting" particularly well. Lestrade broke the awkward silence.

"What's it like?" he asked, eyes closed, voice thoughtful.

"What is 'what' like?" Sherlock asked, confused.

Lestrade opened his eyes. "What's it like, living in your head all the time?"

Sherlock was used to all variations of this question being loaded with frustration or vitriol. But not in this instance. Whether it was the pain or the circumstances that had opened the gateway to this innocent curiosity, Sherlock didn't know. He only knew that Lestrade was being utterly sincere in his query.

"Well?" asked Lestrade expectantly, "What is it like in the mind of the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"Exhausting," came the quiet reply.

"But it must be spectacular," Lestrade pressed, "seeing what the rest of us don't, or can't. Not having to waste time on people, only to find out that who they really are is not what you thought. You can tell who a person is just in a glance. I think it's brilliant."

"It can also make you feel like you're all alone in the universe," Sherlock admitted, his rare candor surprising even himself. "It can also make you so jaded, because you do see how people try to lie and deceive others. You so often can see the worst of people."

Lestrade was watching him intently, a rapt audience. Sherlock continued, "But sometimes, some very rare times, you read people and you see them, the real them and – it's not terrible. Because sometimes they are able to see you too."

"We all wear masks," said Lestrade, "even you, Sherlock. But not all masks are bad."

Sherlock became very interested in the cuff of his shirt. He stayed silent, unable to respond.

Realizing that Sherlock revealed as much about himself as he was going to, Lestrade switched his focus to their predicament.

"So what exactly is happening here?" he asked.

"I don't honestly know," Sherlock said, relieved at the change in conversation. "Someone had this placed rigged so that gun would go off, though I haven't figured out why yet."

"Told you this was a bad idea," Lestrade said, with a weak smile.

"Yes, well, you were -" the words stuck on Sherlock's lips, "– right, I suppose."

Lestrade's smile grew. "I think I want that in writing. This may be the only time you've admitted I'm right about something."

"That's because this is the first time you've actually been right," Sherlock corrected. "It was bound to happen eventually. Don't get too proud of yourself."

Lestrade readjusted his position slightly, the grin still lingering. "I was right," he repeated to himself.

Sherlock pulled himself from the floor and stretched deeply, his aching muscles groaning in protest. He cautiously peered out the dirty, fractured window.

"What time is it?" asked Lestrade, yawning.

"Early," Sherlock said, returning to sit beside Lestrade once again.

"Could you be a little more specific?" asked Lestrade, deliberately parroting Sherlock's earlier words.

Sherlock made a face but squinted in the dim light at his watch. "It's – huh. My watch has stopped."

Lestrade said nothing.

"Don't give me that look," Sherlock said, not looking up.

"How do you know I'm giving you a look?" challenged Lestrade.

"Because you think there is something spooky about this town and you would just love for something as simple as my watch stopping to be evidence that this place is haunted or something," said Sherlock, picking up Lestrade's left wrist to look at the watch there.

"Well?" asked Lestrade.

Sherlock's mouth was working to make a series of faces that would have been funny if they weren't accompanied by a pair of troubled eyes.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade tried to tug his wrist away but Sherlock's grip held fast.

"Your watch has stopped too," he muttered finally.

Lestrade gave him a look. "You know -" he began.

"Don't say it," snapped Sherlock. "It's…a coincidence, that's all."

"Thought you didn't believe in coincidences?"

Sherlock scowled. "I don't. But I don't believe in curses or the supernatural either. Also, I'm trying this new thing where I lie to make people feel better."

"You're trying to comfort me?" Lestrade asked, torn between disbelief and amusement.

"Yes. And you're ruining it. So shut up."

Lestrade was silent for a moment. "I appreciate your attempts at making me feel better."

"Thank you," replied Sherlock tersely.

"But you're rubbish at it. Stick to painful honesty. It suits you," Lestrade said, eyes closed so he couldn't see the face that he knew Sherlock was making at him.

"Did I mention you could shut up?"

* * *

Sherlock didn't have more than five minutes to speculate on why both of their watches had stopped (because it _couldn't _ be a coincidence) before the curiousness of the phenomena became the furthest thing in his mind.

Lestrade had grown increasingly restless and was struggling to find a position that didn't make him feel as if a hundred hot forks were being dug into his flesh. He had tried to shift to his left, hoping to relieve some of the pressure and discomfort in his stomach and chest.

The movement had the opposite of its desired effect.

He would have cried out but it was as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs. The gasp came out a deathly rattle, desperate and chilling. Sherlock was instantly alert, one hand on Lestrade's arm, the other turning the man's face slightly towards him.

"What is it?" he asked, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt.

"Can't….breathe…." Lestrade wheezed, fearing each breath would be his last.

"If you're telling me you can't breathe, then you're breathing, right?" he asked pragmatically.

"Damn you! It hurts!" came the raspy reply.

"'Painful honesty', you know?" Sherlock's voice softened, "Just focus on small breaths. In and out. Nice and slow."

Lestrade closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing. He was vaguely aware of Sherlock repeating his instructions in a low, dulcet tone. Though the pressure didn't abate, his panic did. He felt like he was once again in control of his own body, at least for the moment.

Eyes still closed, he could feel Sherlock moving around until he was behind Lestrade's head.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"For the last time Lestrade, shut up," Sherlock answered, in perhaps the kindest tone Lestrade had ever heard.

He opened his eyes just as Sherlock slid his hands carefully under Lestrade's neck and shoulders and, with infinite care, raised them enough so that he could stretch his legs out before bringing Lestrade's head and shoulders down to rest on his lap.

This time, Lestrade knew the pang in his chest wasn't a result of his injuries. Sherlock so rarely showed compassion for anybody. But in that moment, he was so purely selfless, that Lestrade once again found it hard to breathe.

"You're a good man, Sherlock Holmes," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. Silently, he added, _just like I told John you could be._

Sherlock didn't reply; he didn't need to. His hand rested on Lestrade's head, absently stroking the silvery hair. Lestrade was fighting a losing battle with the pain, his chin quivering slightly, his brow furrowed as he sought to mask his agony.

"I know you're trying to hide the pain, that you don't want me to see," said Sherlock, leaning close. "But not all masks are bad, remember?"

As a lone tear of pain escape from the corner of one closed eye, Lestrade made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "More worried about the fact you're never going to let me live this down."

Sherlock brushed the dampness away with the back of his finger before bringing his hands back to Lestrade's hair. "I won't tell anyone that I sat here petting your head like a stray cat if you won't".

The darkness beginning to wash over him once more, Lestrade could only mouth the words as his voice failed him.

_Thank you._

* * *

John was so used to Sherlock's badgering waking him up that he didn't rouse at first. But the third time Sherlock said his name, John became aware of something he was not used to hearing in Sherlock's voice and it caused him to sit bolt upright.

Sherlock sounded afraid.

Suddenly very awake, John was at Sherlock's side in an instant. Sherlock was crouching beside Lestrade, worry etched in every line of his face.

"He's burning up," he said to John simply.

Before John's hand even touched Lestrade's forehead he could feel the heat rolling off of him in waves. A faint sheen of sweat gave his face an eerie wax-like quality. Despite the fact that his skin was hot to the touch, Lestrade was shivering violently as if he might never be warm again.

"How long has he been like this?" asked John, moving to inspect the wound.

"It got bad in the last hour or so," Sherlock guessed, mentally cursing his stopped watch.

John drew in a sharp breath between his teeth as he peeled the gauze back from the injury. The wound was red and angry, the skin around it swollen.

"Infected?" asked Sherlock, dreading the answer.

"No surprise given the amount of dirt and exposure," said John as he carefully set to cleaning the area around the wound with the last dregs of the whiskey.

Lestrade moaned but did not wake. As John tended to the wound, Sherlock poured a small amount of bottled water onto scarf and gently wiped Lestrade's face, trying to wash away some of the pain and misery.

With the wound re-bandaged, John assessed Lestrade's vital signs. He noted the fixed, dilated pupils, the erratic pulse, and the labored breathing. He didn't need to say anything for Sherlock to know that the situation was growing dire; John's face said it all. They had done all they could at their presentation location. He gave a deep, resigned sigh.

"We need to move."


	4. Fear Itself

**Author's Note: The ending of this chapter got really dark, really fast, LOL. I didn't know it was going to go there when I started but hey, that's the nature of writing.**

**Usual disclaimers apply – not my characters, please don't sue.**

* * *

_Pleased to meet you__  
Hope you guess my name__  
But what's puzzling you__  
Is the nature of my game_

_~Rolling Stones, "Sympathy for the Devil"_

Knowing time was of the essence, John went outside to make sure that there was no one lying in wait while Sherlock had the unenviable task of trying to rouse Lestrade. He had hovered at the edge of unconsciousness since the fever had ravaged him. This was not the time to be cautious or gentle. Sherlock had made a fist and pressed his knuckles hard against Lestrade's sternum, rubbing up and down.

The result, while unpleasant, was as he desired. Lestrade gasped sharply and his eyes flew open.

"Ow! The hell is wrong with you?" he panted, chest throbbing.

"Sorry," said Sherlock, not sounding sorry at all. "But we need to move."

"Why?"

Sherlock answered as honestly as he could without alarming Lestrade. "You've developed a fever and John's worried about the wound getting infected. It's finally light out so we want to get out of here."

Lestrade nodded tiredly. A chill ran through him and he shivered violently, tugging Sherlock's coat and the emergency blanket more tightly around him.

"So cold," he mumbled, his eyes starting to close.

'Stay awake Lestrade," ordered Sherlock, gently tapping the side of the older man's face.

"He awake?" John's voice trickled down the hallway as he made his way back into the house.

"Matter of opinion. See anything?" asked Sherlock as John came into the cramped kitchen.

"No, and that makes me nervous. If someone's out there, they're good. I couldn't find any signs of anyone else being here."

"Maybe we're alone after all," said Sherlock as he eased his coat away from Lestrade and put it on.

"You don't believe that," rasped Lestrade, a skeptical look on his face.

"Are you ever going to get tired of ruining my attempts at reassurance?" asked Sherlock.

Lestrade didn't reply as another bone-rattling chill coursed through him. Despite being drenched in sweat, he felt like he might never get warm again. The cold was running right through him like an icy river.

"We need to go," said John quietly, firmly.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "This is going to hurt," he warned. "I'm going to carry you but-"

Lestrade interrupted him with a small but firm shake of his head. _No._

"Greg-" began John patiently.

"No," Lestrade whispered, cursing how weak and small his voice was. "I'm walking."

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Sherlock. "You can't even sit up. How do you expect to walk out of here?"

"Slowly and painfully?" offered Lestrade.

Sherlock made a noise of exasperation, his opinion on the matter clear. Still, he and John helped Lestrade struggle to his feet. His legs shook, threatening to betray him. He was certain he could feel his side splitting open, ripping him apart. Despite the raging fever and the crippling pain and the taunting weakness, he was committed to walking out of this nightmare under his own volition.

Sherlock was watching Lestrade's face intently as he pitched and swayed but remained on his feet. He hadn't thought it possible but Lestrade's face had lost even more colour. His deathly pallor made the smudged circles under his eyes even more prominent. He had aged ten years in the matter of hours.

"You look like shit," Sherlock said.

John shot him a dirty look but Lestrade began to laugh, which caught in his throat and turned to a wheezing cough.

"At least I've got a reason," he said once he had caught his breath, "what's your excuse?"

It was Sherlock's turn to fire off a dirty look as John snickered.

* * *

John passed Sherlock the flare gun and armed himself with the empty shotgun that he grabbed from the living room ("The threat of a weapon is better than no weapon at all"). Lestrade's arm was draped around Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock had his arm locked around Lestrade's waist, always mindful of his injuries.

As they stepped out into the gray morning, Sherlock marveled at Lestrade's resolve. He didn't know that where or how Lestrade had found the fortitude to not only stand but to push forward. His grip on Sherlock's arm was enough to leave bruises but his determination held even tighter. He had always suspected Lestrade was probably stronger than he gave him credit for but the definitive proof was at his side, matching him step for step.

An eternity later, they had nearly reached the outskirts of town, the long road to freedom within their sight, when their it-can't-get-any-worse-than-this predicament found a way to get much worse. The trouble came in the form of a voice behind them.

"Leaving so soon?"

John spun first, shotgun at the ready, stepping protectively in front of Sherlock and Lestrade. The pair also turned, albeit much more slowly, Sherlock swept the flare gun over the group of men that stood behind them. He casually maneuvered so that he was shielding Lestrade. His eyes scanned the entourage with precision, mentally making notes.

_Militant in both style and appearance. Uniforms don't match any known service branch but would fool an untrained eye. The illusion of authority. Don't be lulled into a false sense of security – it's the inmates who are running the asylum._

The man who spoke had an angular face and dark, reptilian eyes. His lips peeled back to reveal too many teeth; his smile had all the warmth of a piranha.

_Those eyes - he's watching us like a viper about to strike. _

"Who are you?" John's voice was calm and even.

Snake Eyes looked from the shotgun to the flare gun and back again. His empty smile never faltered.

"Nice weapon," he said, deliberately ignoring John's question. "You going to shoot me, are you?"

"Only if you give me reason to," retorted John, his own military experience creeping into his voice.

"Oh there will be plenty of reasons for you to pull that trigger. But the point is moot because I don't think that gun is loaded."

"Yeah? You think I walk around with an unloaded gun?" John's reply sounded almost convincing.

"I do. In fact," –Snake Eyes stepped closer to John—"I'm willing to stake my life on it."

Sherlock felt Lestrade dig his fingers harder into the flesh above his elbow.

_Snake Eyes is calling John's bluff._

_Shit._

Snake Eyes held John's gaze as he closed one hand over the barrel of the gun and pressed it directly to his own heart. He held it, silently daring John to fire. The stare down continued for long moments until John conceded, letting his eyes close for just longer than a blink. A low exhalation and he let the gun slip from his grasp.

"You think I don't recognize one of my own guns?" asked Snake Eyes, tossing the useless weapon to the dirt "We heard it go off last night. So – who'd it hit?"

He scanned the three men, his eyes settling on Lestrade's slightly hunched frame. He roughly shoved John to the side to get to Lestrade and Sherlock. Sherlock widened his stance and aimed the flare gun directly at Snake Eyes' malevolent grin.

"That's close enough," Sherlock said.

"Oh, come now, are you really going to do the exact same thing your friend did to disastrous results?" asked Snake Eyes.

Sherlock smirked. "It's not the exact same thing if my weapon is loaded, now is it?"

A humorless huff of a laugh escaped Snake Eyes' lips. "Touché." He eyed the flare gun and arched one thin eyebrow. "However, if you can manage to take out all six of us with a single flare, I will be most impressed."

Sherlock's hand never wavered as he replied, "I don't need to hit six targets. I just need to hit one."

Snake Eyes' smiled pulled wider, teeth flashing dangerously. "And unlike your friend, I believe you would. I think I'd admire you for doing so. The only regret I'd have about my demise is that I wouldn't get to watch your reaction when my men shoot your friend in the head."

A compact, barrel-chested man with droopy, baleful eyes had his weapon drawn and pointed at John's head before Snake Eyes finished speaking.

_Quite an obedient hound dog, aren't you?_

Sherlock didn't lower the flare gun but he didn't resist as Snake Eyes pulled it from his hands. The satisfaction he'd feel from lighting the man's face up like a firecracker wasn't worth endangering John.

The threat neutralized, Snake Eyes turned his attention from Sherlock to Lestrade. "You're awful quiet, mate."

Lestrade shrugged. "Nothing to say to you."

"The 'tough guy' act is more impressive when you don't have a bullet in you."

"Really?" said Lestrade drolly. "Because I thought the bullet actually me seem tougher."

Snake Eyes shouldered past Sherlock and stood dangerously close to Lestrade. Without someone to support him Lestrade's steadiness faltered but he refused to flinch. Snake Eyes circled him slowly, like a vulture over carrion. Without warning, he pulled Lestrade's jacket back slightly, revealed the bloody shirt underneath.

He threw a smug, knowing look to the group before shifting his eyes back to Lestrade. "It got you _good_," he said, a perverse glee creeping into his voice.

"I've had worse," Lestrade replied with feigned nonchalance.

A chilling titter ran through the group. Snake Eyes wrenched the jacket back again, this time pressing his hand against the wound. Lestrade bit down on the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood, fighting to remain upright.

"You've had worse? Oh, I very much doubt that," said Snake Eyes, something ominous in his voice.

A man with long gangly limbs joined Snake Eyes and surveyed Lestrade like a specimen under a microscope, making Lestrade feel raw and exposed.

_It's like watching a curious primate try to make sense of a new discovery._

Spider Monkey's lecherous gaze made Lestrade recoil as his last bit of personal space was violated. Rough, unforgiving hands yanked Lestrade's shirt up and ripped the bandages carelessly away from the wound. What little strength he had been clinging to gone, Lestrade's legs at last betrayed him. Snake Eyes grabbed him from behind as he crumpled to the ground, pinning his arms at his side. Spider Monkey continued to probe and prod until a tortured yelp escaped Lestrade's lips.

Sherlock had moved to help but two interchangeable men with the same mop of unruly hair and heavy-set brows had drawn their guns.

_A pair of idiots who are incapable of independent thought. If they had half a brain between them they'd be a real threat._

Thing One and Thing Two kept him at bay, rendering him helpless to stop the cruel exploratory hands that were eliciting increasing loud cries of pain from Lestrade.

At last, Spider Monkey sat back on his heels, leaving Lestrade struggling to regain his breath and his composure. His examination complete, Spider Monkey wiped his hands on a filthy rag and looked at Snake Eyes, shaking his head.

"Wound's already infected," he said, his lip curled in disgust. "No good to us."

He and Snake Eyes let go of Lestrade, who slumped over, one arm hand on the ground to keep him from collapsing completely.

Snake Eyes stood and, without so much as a backward glance at Lestrade, nodded at Hound Dog. When he spoke, his voice was flat and cold.

"Kill 'im."

In a heartbeat, Hound Dog's gun swung from aiming at John's head to Lestrade's, already squeezing the trigger as he turned. John hurled himself at Hound Dog, knocking his arm to the side just as the trigger fully contracted. The bullet went wide, missing Lestrade by mere inches.

Hound Dog grabbed John's wrist in his free hand and brought the butt of the gun down hard. There was a sickening crack, like an egg on concrete, as the bone gave way. John dropped to the ground, clutching the useless limb to his chest as a steady stream of profanities spilled from his lips.

"Bugger," said Snake Eyes blandly.

Hound Dog looked nervously from John to Snake Eyes. "I- I didn't…I know we weren't supposed to….I just…" he sputtered, fearfully watching Snake Eyes for any reaction.

_No one is supposed to make a move unless Snake Eyes says so. He is their puppeteer._

Snake Eyes held up his hand to silence the panicked ramblings. "It's okay. He didn't leave you a choice," he said shooting John a look of contempt.

"Besides," he continued, "I'm sure we can come up with a way to 'set' this. Haven't had a good broken bone in a while. Gives us something new to work with."

Snake Eyes turned on the sixth man who had been doing his best to blend into the background. The man kept his gaze lowered and was rubbing holes into the cuffs of his fatigues with his nervous fingers. He withered under Snake Eyes' gaze, as if he was about to be devoured.

_He's the bottom of this food chain – a little mouse._

"S-S-Sir?" stammered Field Mouse, finding his tiny voice at last.

"Get him up," said Snake Eyes, nudging John roughly with his boot.

Field Mouse scurried over and took John's good arm. John wrenched his arm away sharply. Field Mouse shrank back in the face of this defiance. A low noise, almost a growl, came from the back of Snake Eyes' throat. His eyes still fixed on the ground, Field Mouse timidly reached for John's arm again, relief on his face when John didn't resist.

"What do you want?" asked Sherlock unable to keep the bite out of his voice. He was growing weary of these games and his patience was waning.

Snake Eyes looked at Sherlock appraisingly. He sensed an unspoken challenge to his carefully crafted authority. The power struggle was about to commence, two silverbacks facing off for dominance and respect. He approached Sherlock, each step calculated and threatening.

Snake Eyes said, "Have you ever taken a novel and read the last page first? To know the ending before you even start, well, that's just an egregious sin. It's so much more gratifying to turn each page slowly, never knowing what the next moment will bring. The end will come regardless. Why spoil the surprise?"

"Spare me your histrionics," said Sherlock. "If that deliberately evasive answer was meant to be frightening, then it was a dismal failure. While I don't doubt that you are a dangerous man, all of this" –Sherlock waved his hands at the uniformed men and the abandoned town in the background- "this is all for show. It's theatrics; it's smoke and mirrors. You thrive on scaring people but I'm not buying what you're selling. I'm not afraid."

Snake Eyes analyzed Sherlock's face as if it was a painting, searching for that minute detail that holds the key to artist's secrets. A Cheshire Cat smile filled his face. He walked backwards leisurely.

"You say you aren't afraid as if that is synonymous with not caring. The two are not mutually exclusive. Because you do care. You care an awful lot," said Snake Eyes, stopping beside Lestrade. He knelt down and grabbed Lestrade's hair, yanking his head back hard enough to make Lestrade's eyes water.

Snake Eyes continued, "If I were to shoot him in the head right now, or slit his throat, how would you feel? You'd like me to believe you'd feel nothing. But you know that I know that's just patently untrue. It would slice you to the bone.

So I'll give you a choice: You and your other friend come without a fight and I'll leave this one here. Lock him up in that shed without any further injury. Or I make you watch while I bleed him dry, right here, right now. You decide. What do you fear more – the ending you know or the one that you don't?"

Sherlock glanced at John who nodded without hesitation. The decision was easy.

"I told you, I don't fear the outcome. But I never read the ending before I begin," said Sherlock. "I much prefer to figure it out for myself. We're coming with you."

Snake Eyes released his grip on Lestrade's hair with a rough shove. He closed the distance between he and Sherlock in three long strides.

"And I'm going to enjoy watching the pieces fall into place for you," Snake Eyes said. "And I am going to _love_ watching you break. If you're not afraid yet, you will be."

Sherlock scoffed, "You might frighten some people but I find you little more than a caricature. It's laughable, really. You're one step removed from twirling a mustache while laughing maniacally. You think you're terrifying. I think you're pathetic."

Sherlock knew in an instant that he had pushed too far. Snake Eyes' venomous smile never faltered but the antagonism had raised his hackles. There was an almost imperceptible change behind his eyes. It was the flicker of a man unhinged.

He stepped close, his breath hot and sour on Sherlock's neck. His voice dropped so low that only the consulting detective could hear it.

"He's a pretty one, isn't he? I've been looking for a new plaything. So, when I'm finished with the two of you, I'm going to come back here for him. And with a bullet in his side, he's not going to put up much of a fight. Pity – I like when things get a little rough. But no matter. I'll make him wish that you had chosen a more merciful fate," he taunted.

Despite his growing concern that he was losing this battle, Sherlock challenged, "And if he's dead when you get back?"

The smile fell from Snake Eyes' face at last. Fury flashed behind his eyes. His restraint gone, he pressed his mouth next to Sherlock's ear and hissed,

"Then I will fuck his corpse."

Snake Eyes strode away, victorious.

Sherlock Holmes was afraid.


	5. The Thunder Rolls

_Shatter every window till it's all blown away,__  
Every brick, every board, every slamming door blown away__  
Till there's nothing left standing,__  
Nothing left to yesterday__  
Every tear-soaked whiskey memory blown away_

_~Carrie Underwood, "Blown Away"_

The weather, like their circumstances, had turned dire. The clouds were rolling in like waves on the wind. The first faint strains of a thunderous symphony began to beat upon the sky. The weather sympathized with their plight but could only offer the cleansing relief of rain. There was nothing else that could be done.

Thing One and Thing Two half-dragged, half-carried Lestrade to the decrepit shed and unceremoniously dumped him inside. The shed was little more than an upright rotting box with barren walls and a dirt floor. Sherlock shoved past Thing One and Thing Two stoop beside Lestrade. Their hands instantly went to their guns, itching to put a bullet in his skull; their gaze instantly went to Snake Eyes, unwilling to do anything without his approval. He held them off with a flick of his hand.

Sherlock ignored them, tuning out the world as he shrugged out of his coat and cocooned the prone figure in its warmth. Lestrade let out a low sigh and looked at Sherlock with big, tired eyes.

"What did he say to you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"Whatever it was, it scared you. And that scares me," Lestrade whispered.

Sherlock couldn't find the right words to say. He bit his lip and looked down.

Lestrade's voice caught in his throat. "I don't want to die here." His eyes were brimming and he was clinging desperately to what tenuous grasp he still had on his control.

Sherlock found Lestrade's hand under the heavy fabric of the coat. "You are not going to die here. You're not allowed to."

As he spoke he rubbed his thumb gently across the back of Lestrade's hand.

Sherlock continued, "I'm coming back for you."

"And for your coat," said Lestrade, with a knowing, albeit weak, grin.

"That too. I am going to want it back – I like that coat. Hold on to it for me."

His voice dropped even lower until it was almost a whisper. "_You _hold on for me. You've trusted me before; trust me now."

Lestrade latched on to Sherlock's words and his comforting touch, the touch that was keeping him grounded in a world that was spinning so fast he thought he might fly off. He believed in Sherlock Holmes, now more than ever. He had to.

Snake Eyes stepped into the already crowded shed and grabbed Sherlock by the scruff of his neck and leaned intrusively into their conversation.

"Oh, are we having a moment?" he taunted in his oily voice.

He shouldered his way between them, knocking Sherlock to the ground. In that moment, it was just the three of them in the world, shielded from everyone else by the crumbling walls of the shed.

Snake Eyes gripped either side of Lestrade's face like a vise. He whispered something only Lestrade could hear and then, with a vindictive look tossed at Sherlock, ran his tongue up Lestrade's neck to his jaw line where he bit down hard enough to leave his vulgar stain.

"Just marking my territory," Snake Eyes cooed cruelly as his hand wound itself through Lestrade's silver hair.

Sherlock had been restrained until now but the abject terror that flashed through his friend's eyes broke him. He was lunging for Snake Eyes, desperate to tear the taunting smirk from his face when his foe drew his gun. Snake Eyes tucked the muzzle up under Lestrade's chin, clicking his tongue reproachfully.

The rage inside Sherlock gnashed its teeth in frustration. His hands clenched into cramped fists. He, like Lestrade, was completely at this man's mercy.

The sound of the gun being cocked had drawn an audience. John and Spider Monkey jockeyed for position, each glaring at the other as they peered into their respective corners. John flinched at the tableau in front of him.

His position as alpha male clearly asserted, Snake Eyes casually put the gun away and released Lestrade's hair. His hand lingered for a moment too long on the injured man's cheek before he drew it away.

John had always known that Sherlock had a tremendous capacity for anger. It was flashing in his eyes now like a beacon that warns sailors of their imminent demise. Sherlock was keeping his fury at bay but only barely.

When he spoke, it was a voice that neither John nor Lestrade had ever heard. It was the voice of a man undone.

"You touch him again," began Sherlock, low and threatening, "and I promise that it is the last thing you will ever do in this miserable world. You like playing with people's minds. I am going to make sure that the last thing that ever goes through your mind is a bullet."

"Are you…_threatening_ me?" purred Snake Eyes dangerously.

"I'm _warning _you," Sherlock cautioned.

For the first time since their paths had crossed, Snake Eyes faltered. His coldly impassive face didn't change but there was a hesitation, a beat, a stutter, before he found his voice again.

"Since I was able to relieve you of your 'weapons' so quickly, forgive me if I am not quaking at your words. I thought by now we'd established that threats work so much more effectively when there is some sort of follow through."

It was John who replied, "You obviously don't know him. I haven't seen him fail to follow through on a threat yet."

Snake Eyes slid his gaze to John's stony face, reading it for any clues. John felt a smug satisfaction at the twitch of Snake Eyes' mouth – there was a minute dent in the arrogance and dominance he had been trying to exert over them.

"Lock it up," snapped Snake Eyes as stormed from the shed, dragging Sherlock by his elbow behind him.

Sherlock held Lestrade's eyes for the last second before the door was slammed shut and padlocked, trying desperately to convey a sense of reassurance without words. The dark brown eyes looking back at him were haunted. He was fragile – no, thought Sherlock, more than that. He was broken.

"Stay here," barked Snake Eyes to Field Mouse. "Keep him alive until I get back."

Field Mouse nodded timidly. He cast a mournful, apologetic gaze at Sherlock as he took up position next to the shed door. He looked as if he wanted to ground to swallow him whole. It was the only flicker of human emotion Sherlock had seen from any of the men since their lives had so unfortunately become intertwined.

Without a backward glance, Snake Eyes and Spider Monkey led the processional through Damread. Sherlock wished he could shake the feeling that they were being marched to the gallows.

He fell in step with John whose brow was furrowed more deeply than usual. His broken arm was buried in the folds of his coat, close to his chest.

"How's your arm?" asked Sherlock quietly.

John replied with a one-shoulder shrug. "Hurts like hell. But in the grand scheme of things, I can't say I'm too concerned about it."

He cast a glance back at the shed that was rapidly fading in the distance. "Think he'll be okay?"

Sherlock wanted to lie, to say that yes, Lestrade would be fine. But he couldn't. Not to John and certainly not to himself.

"A not insignificant part of me hopes that he dies before they finish with us," he admitted.

John was aghast. "You can't mean that!" he hissed, mouth agape. "Sherlock. He's your _friend_. How can you-?"

"It's because he's my friend," Sherlock interrupted, "that I hope he dies so that he doesn't have to endure what this lunatic has planned for him."

John searched Sherlock's face for answers.

Sherlock clarified carefully, "It goes well beyond physical torture."

John read the truth behind the penetrating blue eyes.

"Oh. _Oh. _Oh God," he breathed, his stomach churning. "You don't mean…" he trailed off when Sherlock dropped his gaze, suddenly very interested in the ground beneath his feet.

"There are fates worse than death," said Sherlock simply.

They marched on in silence.

"I have to say," said John through the tension, "that this lot is making me miss Moriarty."

Sherlock laugh-snorted, drawing a rough shove to his back and a banal "Shhh!" from Hound Dog.

The grumbling thunder grew closer. The world became ever darker as the clouds shuddered and groaned under the weight of the impending downpour. In the distance, flashes of light hammered out the beat. The heavens were about to open; the world was about to drown.

Snake Eyes brought the group to a standstill in front of a stone building that looked as sickly and discouraging as everything else in the town. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the wholly unimpressive structure, unable to keep the sneer of disdain off his face.

"Oh it may not be much to look at from the outside," chirped Snake Eyes, "but just _wait_ until you see what I've done with the place!" He was at once enthusiastic and disturbing, like one of those little wind-up monkeys with the cymbals.

He opened the door and, with a mocking sweep of his arm, ushered them across the threshold.

The main room was littered with beer bottles and cigarette butts, the last remnants of teenaged dares and failed communes with the dead. The room was barely large enough to accommodate the group comfortably. Two moldy sofas with their innards spilling out faced off against each other near the center of the room. A battered curio cabinet stood sentry in the corner. A bar cabinet, its contents long since consumed was pushed back against a far wall. Everything was coated in thick layers of grime and despair.

John was too busy staring at the wall décor to notice the furniture. The taxidermy might was creepy in and of itself but the fact that all of the "animals" were some sort of homemade hybrid experiment made it downright disturbing. There was a squirrel with its face locked in a silent scream attached to the body of a bird in flight, a fox's maniacal grim stitched to the lithe body of a rabbit, and a mongrel dog crossed with what looked uncomfortably like a fawn.

Snake Eyes caught John's widened eyes and smiled. "This isn't even the best part," he said. "Wait until you see what I have in the basement."

"Cerberus?" muttered John to Sherlock as they fumbled their way down the dark stairs, the long, slow descent into madness.

With every step, Sherlock dreaded what was waiting for them at the bottom.

When they finally reached the murky depths, the generator was fired up and retina-burning overhead lights doused the room in a harsh, sterile glow.

What they found was worse than anything they might have imagined.

"Jesus," breathed John, wondering if everyone could hear his heart thundering in his chest like hoof beats.

Staring around this dank space with low ceilings, it became increasingly apparent that these people were not only malevolent, they were completely devoid of any human decency.

The basement had been gutted and re-outfitted as a macabre operating theatre. Medical equipment, some of it surely held over from the Middle Ages sat on gleaming silver trays, their presence perhaps even more threatening than the individuals that would wield them.

The restraints on each of the three operating tables lay in wait, jaws open, waiting for the next poor victim to become caught in their trap.

Crude posters of human anatomy, the periodic table, animal dissection, genetics, and disease hung around the room. The shelves built into the wall were stuffed with textbooks and journals, handwritten notes and patient charts. What shelf space was left was crammed with preserved organs and body parts. Sherlock could hope that the shadows were playing tricks on him and that one large jar did not, in fact, contain what looked disturbingly like a human fetus.

John suddenly flinched and stepped away from the wall, his eyes catching a glimpse of the dried crimson streaks and deep scratches on the wall beside his head. Nothing he had seen in war zones had even come close to this.

"What have you done?" John didn't even realize he had spoken; he didn't recognize his own voice.

Far in the distance, a singular burst of noise penetrated this anteroom of Hell, a profane punctuation to the mad world. It seemed even the thunder was crying out in disapproval.

"They've been doing human experimentation," Sherlock answered quietly before anyone else had a chance to speak.

John's head whipped around to look at the group member's face, desperately searching for some glimmer of humanity.

He found none.

Sherlock continued, addressing the group: "It started a long time ago, before any of you were ever born, of course. Back when the world was on the precipice of the first Great War. The climate of the world was changing, and there was a growing willingness to do whatever it took to be the strongest. Our very survival depended then, as it does now, on being the most resilient and the most powerful.

So groups, not unlike yours, they started experimenting. Experimenting with psychological responses to torture. Measuring responses to fear and stimulus. Exposing subjects to harmful elements. Unregulated drug testing. Injecting people with incurable diseases. Poisoning. Testing of weapons. Find out the weaknesses and limitations of the human condition so that we can strengthen ourselves and weaken our enemies.

That's what happened to the original townspeople, isn't it? The military needed human test subjects and what better than a remote town full of people no one would miss."

As he rattled off the sins of the past, Sherlock wished that, just this once, his observations were wrong. He wanted it to be anything other than what it was. But the stony silence and bemused expressions validated every word he spoke, every cruel intention that these men had.

"The disappearance of the townspeople was good for business. Suddenly there was this mythology about Damread that kept people at arm's length," he continued. "They believed was haunted and dangerous. It kept most people away. But when it **did** bring people here, they came in small, manageable groups. And if something was to _happen_ to these people and they never returned, well, then it would just be another mystery of this town."

"Well it was certainly easier than what some other groups do," offered Snake Eyes mildly, as if he was discussing something as benign as the weather. "You think we're the only ones carrying on this work? This is happening all over the world and has been for a long time."

"So that's your justification for playing dress-up, and making a mockery out of the military?" asked John coldly.

"Battles can be fought with all kinds of weapons," said Snake Eyes dismissively, gesturing to the instruments on the table.

"This is no battle. This is you, pretending to be something you're not, committing acts of utter depravity. You're no soldiers," John spat, not even attempting to hide his contempt.

"We're soldiers of fortune," interjected Spider Monkey.

"Selling your soul to the highest bidder," replied John, anger undercutting the tremor in his voice.

Snake Eyes was growing irritated. "Don't be naïve. We're working for the greater good. That's all anyone has ever tried to do here. Time has made it harder and harder to do work like ours."

"Yes, what with all those pesky standards and ethics," said Sherlock sharply.

"Either we progress with the rest of the world or we fall behind. We're building towards another great war – surely you see that? We need to be prepared. And if it comes at the expense of a few otherwise insignificant lives, so be it." Snake Eyes said.

"You can't honestly believe that," said John.

Snake Eyes waved his arm around the room. "I'd say it's pretty obvious that I do."

Sherlock shook his head. "There is a marked difference between experimenting in the name of science and what you're doing here. This isn't about finding answers; this is about stroking your own ego. This is your power play. You're not trying to make the world better. You're trying to make yourself better than the world, to prove your own superiority. You're doing this because you can."

Narrowing his eyes, he continued, "And what's more, you _enjoy _this." It was a statement, not a question.

Snake Eyes didn't answer.

He didn't have to.

* * *

Snake Eyes gave them a smile that never reached his eyes.

"Very good. You certainly seem to have us all figured out. So how about a demonstration?" said Snake Eyes, his hand closing over John's broken arm.

Sherlock knew they had to act now; they would get no second chances.

He drove his elbow back and up, smiling inwardly at the satisfying sound of Hound Dog's nose breaking. Reaching back blindly, his other hand closed around one of the jars and he brought it down as he spun around, raining glass and formaldehyde and a pair of eyeballs down upon on Spider Monkey.

John had immediately followed Sherlock's lead, catching Snake Eyes off-guard with a strike to the chin with the heel of his good hand, followed by a kick to the knee that sent Snake Eyes stumbling into one of the trays of instruments with a tremendous clatter. A hard shove of the operating table knocked Thing One and Thing Two out of the way.

"Go!" he shouted at Sherlock as they bolted for the stairs. Sherlock cleared the steps in three easy bounds, John right on his heels. A split-second before he cleared the doorway, a hand closed around John's ankle, sending him to the floor in a howl of pain as his already injured arm absorbed the brunt of the impact.

Sherlock turned back to grab John, only to be tackled into the main room by a blur that he later realized was Thing One (or was it Thing Two?). The icy pressure of the gun to his head slowed his struggles, and seeing Spider Monkey kneeling on top of John with a gun to his throat stopped them completely.

Snake Eyes came limping up the stairs, eyes flashing and nostril flaring. Sherlock was yanked to his feet hard enough to nearly dislodge his shoulder from its socket. John was pulled into the room from the hall before he even had a chance to stand on his own. He remained crumpled, a welt already starting to rise where his forehead had met the floor when he had fallen. He caught Sherlock's eyes and mouthed the word, "Sorry". Sherlock just shook his head slightly and mouthed back "It's okay".

"Enough," growled Snake Eyes. "While I want nothing more than to hear your screams echo off my walls, I don't have the patience to put up with you for a moment longer. So you will get a rare glimpse of my mercy, as I will make sure your lives end quickly. Then I will go back for your friend," – he licked his lips- "and have my fun. You will die knowing that the blood of your friends is on your hands. While not totally satisfying for me, it will have to suffice."

There was a crushing realization that they were out of options, out of time. There was no reason, no hope. The room lit up in a burst of white light as the storm outside howled in agony for them. The sum of all their fears and all their doubts were raining down around them. The world had reached its end.

"This is insane," Sherlock whispered to no one in particular.

"That," said Snake Eyes, "is where we must agree to disagree."

He gripped John by the shoulder and wrenched him to his feet. In his weakened, injured state John could only put up a feeble ineffective struggle. Snake Eyes drew his gun and pressed it to John's forehead.

Sherlock's desperate, "Wait!" was cut off when Snake Eyes pulled the trigger.

And the world washed away in a sea of red.


	6. The End of the World

**Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews! I thrive on validation from others – I mean, my mom always gives me rave reviews but she's sort of obligated to. Truly, I appreciate them so very much**

* * *

_The harvest left no food for you to eat__  
__You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see__  
__But I have seen the same__  
__I know the shame in your defeat_

_~ Mumford and Sons, "The Cave"_

The room pitched and spun out of control. The world was slipping out of focus. As Sherlock sank to his knees in the sea of anguish, one of the last things he saw was the wall behind where John had stood not ten seconds before.

The wall was painted with brain and blood and bone.

The roaring his ears grew frenzied. Somewhere, it could have been a million miles away, another series of pops snapped through the air. _Gunshots_, his brain screamed.

_Gunshots. John is dead. Lestrade is dead. Maybe I'm dead too. _

This was the end. This damned town had claimed three more. The realization crushed him like a boulder; the weight of the world on his chest. He closed his eyes and ears and heart to the madness and sank slowly into the abyss.

So deep in despair was he that he didn't even register the hand that was touching his arm until the grip grew tighter. The hand clutched at his arm like a vice. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. If he didn't open them, didn't acknowledge the horror he knew awaited them, then it would just go on not existing. The lunacy wouldn't exist. He wouldn't exist.

Someone was talking to him but he couldn't make out the words through the blood pounding in his ears. He didn't want to hear what they said anyways. It was just words. And words meant nothing.

He couldn't –nay, _wouldn't_ - open his eyes and see Snake Eyes' taunting face. He didn't want to hear what these monsters planned to do to him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. They were going to dissect him, tear him apart slowly like an insect. And it didn't matter.

The voice continued, the hand never left his arm.

_Just let me die. _

The voice was still unclear, as if he were listening from underwater. It slowly began to register that the voice was not unkind. It was almost…_comforting_?

He knew that voice.

Hardly daring to hope, he summoned the last reserves of his strength and nerve, and forced his eyes open. It took a long moment for life to slide back into view.

It was not the eyes of a viper staring back into his.

The eyes peering at him were full of concern. They were eyes he knew as well as his own.

John's eyes.

Sherlock couldn't say anything. He just stared. He didn't know how it was possible. He wasn't even sure it _was _possible.

John watched the disbelief, relief, and consternation cross his friend's face in a rainbow of conflicting emotions.

"I'm not dead," he offered mildly.

Sherlock gaped at the face stained thick with blood.

"Are you sure?" he choked out.

John let out a half-laugh and cupped Sherlock's face in his uninjured hand for a moment before turning back towards the doorway.

It slowly dawned on Sherlock that their tormentors were dead. He staggered to his feet and crossed the room, carefully avoiding the mangled pulp of what remained of Snake Eyes' face. He was opening his mouth to ask John what had happened when he got his answer.

Slumped in the doorway, shotgun dangling from his hand, was Lestrade.

For the second time in as many minutes Sherlock felt like he was looking into the eyes of a resurrected man. A million questions died on his lips as Lestrade's shaking legs gave out and Sherlock rushed forward to help him.

Pushing his own injuries aside, John's did a quick once-over. His assessment was swift.

"We need to get help."

The part of Sherlock's brain that filed information away, out of sight, until it became relevant again, pulled up information on a phone that was sitting on one of the long counters in the basement. Something told him that, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, it would work. He wasn't usually one to trust his gut. But at this point, he was running on the fumes of intuition.

He returned to the torture chamber, making a concentrated effort to not look around. He dialed the number with trembling fingers. He felt oddly dissociated, like he was living in someone else's body. Words failing him. Acting on instinct. Holding his curiosity at bay. It was like being in a dream, the kind where you know you're dreaming but no matter how much you want to, you just can't wake up.

The ringing in his ears (was it from the phone or inside his head?) was interrupted by a click as the someone he so needed to talk to picked up.

"Mycroft?" he said before his brother had time to issue a greeting, his voice high and panicked, even to his own ears.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" Despite the fact that the voice was distant and tinny and belonged to Mycroft, Sherlock thought it might have been the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

Sherlock gave what was, for him, a brief explanation of what had transpired over the last two days. The words had barely left his mouth when Mycroft was calling in favors and making arrangements.

"Are you okay?" Mycroft asked.

"Careful Mycroft; someone might hear you and think that's actual concern in your voice."

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was uncharacteristically soft.

"I'm fine. Just…hurry, okay?"

He raced back up the stairs, to his friends and salvation and sanity.

He never looked back.

John was sitting uncomfortably beside Lestrade, doing his best to put pressure on the once-again seeping wound.

Sherlock moved to Lestrade's head, mirroring the earlier scene from the day prior, the one he had hoped never to have to replay.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock called gently. The man didn't stir.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said more forcefully, to similar results.

He ran the back of his fingers lightly along the stubbled jaw, trying a new tactic. "Greg," he said softly.

The rare sound of Sherlock saying his first name woke something deep in Lestrade's brain and his eyes fluttered open.

"Don't think you've ever called me that before," he said, wincing at how weak and raspy his voice was.

"And I probably won't again, since I'm still not entirely convinced it's your real name," replied Sherlock drily.

Lestrade smiled faintly and hitched his arm slightly. "I brought your coat back."

"And it's a good thing too, because otherwise I would have been sending you back to get it," Sherlock said.

His face grew serious. "How did you – well, how did you manage _this_?" asked Sherlock, gesturing to the carnage around them.

Lestrade haunted eyes grew distant.

"The guy let me out, gave me his gun. I took it and here we are."

It wasn't that simple. Nothing ever is.

* * *

_It was cold and dark in the shed. Lestrade suspected that this might well be what being buried alive felt like._

_Alone with nothing but his thoughts and memories for company, he couldn't shut out the words the man with the inhuman eyes had hissed into his ear:_

"_I'm not done with you yet. I hope you like it rough…"_

_If that was going to be his fate, then there was only thing to do._

_He prayed for death._

_The creak of the door interrupted his silent pleas for pity and opened a vein of dread in his heart._

_Oh God. The man was back. Sherlock and John were dead and he was going to die here, alone and begging for mercy that wouldn't come. _

_He bit back the sob of terror that threatened to escape his throat. It wasn't going to end like this. It couldn't._

_The figure who appeared in the doorway was not the man with the inhuman eyes. It was the quiet one, the one who looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here._

_He shuffled towards Lestrade, a shotgun in his hand._

_Lestrade eyed it wearily. _

Is he going to take me out back and shoot me like Old Yeller?

"_I'm not going to shoot you," the man said, as if reading Lestrade's mind. _

_The man leaned the gun against the door frame and offered a hand to Lestrade. "Think you can stand?"_

_Lestrade just stared at him with distrustful eyes. The man sighed._

"_Your friends are in danger," he said simply. "I'm trying to help."_

"_Why?" asked Lestrade suspiciously while simultaneously reaching up to meet the man's extended hand, albeit with some reticence. _

"_Because it's the right thing to do," replied the man as he helped Lestrade to his feet. Lestrade kept Sherlock's coat balled up under his arm. The man gave him a quizzical look._

"_I promised I'd return it," Lestrade shrugged._

_As they stepped out of the shed into the storm, the man snagged the shotgun and, to Lestrade's surprise, handed it to him._

"_Once we get there, you can put the first bullet in me if you want," offered the man as they made their way slowly through the mud and the muck._

"_What's going on here?" Lestrade asked as the rain poured down, almost blinding him._

"_You don't want to know," the man said so softly that he could scare be heard over the storm. _

"_I'm still not certain I'm not going to die out here – I think the time for secrecy has passed."_

_So the man told him. He relayed everything they had done; those things that made up the nightmares of the human race._

_Lestrade couldn't speak. There were no words._

_In front of low stone building, the man abruptly stopped. "They're in there," he said, gesturing. _

"_What's the plan?" Lestrade asked, leaning against the wall, trying to gather his strength and his bearings._

_The man shrugged. "That's up to you."_

_The man walked backwards, slowly turning to look at the town, his face fraught with sorrow and regret. "This town is full of ghosts, you know," the man said, drawing a revolver from his coat. _

_Lestrade tightened his grip on the shotgun._

_The man turned back to face Lestrade. "I said I was helping you because it was the right thing to do. That's not quite true. I mean, it is the right thing to do, but that's not why I'm doing it. I've hurt so many people and done so much wrong that I think I'm making one last ditch effort to atone for my sins. Because I can't go on."_

_He cast his eyes to the erupting sky. "This is as far as I go."_

_With that, he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. _

_The gunshot got swallowed up by the storm, a dying prayer of redemption in the wind that would go unanswered._

_Lestrade didn't have time to dwell on the crimes of the past. He had a very small window of opportunity. He turned the handle that led to the unknown, thinking faintly of how Sherlock had done the very same thing only the day before. Was it really only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime ago._

_The foyer was empty but Lestrade could hear voices coming from below him. He had crept to the doorway and was plotting his next move when yells, sounds of glass breaking, and a great commotion forced him to drop back behind the door._

_It was just in time, as Sherlock and John came slamming through the door in a tangle of limbs. Lestrade remained hidden as the chaos ebbed and the upper hand was gained once again._

_When Snake Eyes had grabbed John, he knew this was the only moment he was going to have. The group couldn't see him, either because they were in the living room or because they had their backs to him. _

_He was outmanned and outgunned. The only thing he had on his side was the element of surprise. _

_In that instant, all the pain faded. The adrenaline was stronger than the infection, his determination greater than his fear. He was invincible. _

_At Sherlock's cry of "Wait!" he pulled his own trigger, the bullet finding purchase in the back of the cruel man's skull. The force of the shot dropped him to the floor, dragging John down with him. _

_For an instant he was strong, storming the room and firing off shots in rapid succession, never missing their target._

_And then, in an instant, he was weak again._

* * *

"You saved our lives." Sherlock said.

"Well, you saved mine so I figured I owed you. Might be the last thing I ever do."

Sherlock could see that the fight was going out of Lestrade's eyes, a dying ember in the ashes.

Sherlock leaned close. "You are not allowed to give up, not now. Not when we're so close. You can't tell me that we made it through all of this just for you to quit right when we're at the end."

Bleary brown eyes peered back at him from hooded lids. "I'm so tired."

And he was. He was tired of suffering this pain. Of fighting for survival. Of hoping for rescue.

"I know," whispered Sherlock, "but you _can_ do this. You've put your faith in me so many times. Now I'm putting my faith in you, and goddamn you if you don't stay alive."

Lestrade's eyes were closing; he was losing the battle.

"I can't do it alone," he mumbled, half-conscious, still fighting.

"You don't have to," Sherlock said softly, firmly.

"Thank you. For everything," came the last words before Lestrade slipped into unconsciousness. Sherlock could only hope that they were not the final words he would ever speak.

He rested his hand on Lestrade's chest, just above his heart. Sherlock was terrified that every beat might be the last. He wasn't sure he could cope with feeling it stop, yet he wouldn't move his hand away. It was anchoring them both to life at that moment.

After what felt like a lifetime, a low rumbling started in the distance. For a moment, Sherlock thought it was just the storm rolling back over them. But as the sound grew closer, he knew what it was.

_Leave it to Mycroft._

The whirring blades of the helicopter cut through the heavy air. John glanced at Sherlock with eyebrows raised.

"Seriously?" he asked,

Sherlock shrugged. "When Mycroft makes something a priority, his resource pool is unlimited."

Sherlock crawled over to the bloody remains of Snake Eyes and began digging through his coat. A quick search produced the flare gun that had been taken from them earlier.

"Don't shoot down the chopper," advised John. Given their recent run of bad luck, he was only half joking.

Sherlock dragged himself to the front door and fired the gun into the rapidly darkening sky. As the sky lit up in a haze of orange, Sherlock could see Field Mouse's body some yards away, face down in the mud. He couldn't bring himself to care.

Mycroft leapt from the helicopter the instant it made contact with the ground, his head ducked low. Sherlock was trying to remember the last time he'd seen his brother run. He couldn't recall. Mycroft didn't run; he walked with purpose.

Mycroft slid to a stop in front of him, standing half an inch closer than the brother's unspoken personal barrier usually allowed. As his eyes scanned Sherlock to make sure that he was, in fact, okay, it occurred to Sherlock that he was looking into the real face of his brother for the first time in perhaps forever. Sherlock suddenly had a strange feeling that he was not the only for whom the scars of Reichenbach ran deep.

_**We all wear masks. But not all masks are bad.**_

"I'm fine," Sherlock reiterated, even though it was the furthest thing from the truth.

_**I'm trying this new thing where I lie to make people feel better.**_

Mycroft wordlessly reached out and gripped Sherlock's shoulder tightly.

Nodding curtly, he turned and went into the house, waving the medics over as he went.

For all of his stoicism, even Mycroft visibly softened at the sad scene in front of him. John, his face stained crimson with someone else's blood, an angry bruise already turning a glorious shade of purple on his forehead, and a badly broken arm, trying to coax Lestrade back into the land of the living.

He surveyed the bodies that littered the floor. He looked at the discarded shotgun at Lestrade's side and arched an eyebrow at Sherlock.

"He's a good shot," shrugged Sherlock.

The room suddenly got very full as medical personnel poured in. Sherlock gave short, clipped answers, never taking his gaze off of Lestrade. The crew wasted no time re-packing the wound, starting IVs and getting him ready for transport. As they lifted him on to the gurney, Sherlock's coat slipped to the ground. As Sherlock swooped in to grab it, Lestrade let out a low moaning sound that reeked of agitation and fear. Though he never awoke, the lines on his face grew deeper.

Sherlock reached past the medics, ignoring their protests, to grip Lestrade's hand for a fleeting second.

"You're not alone," he whispered, his mouth beside Lestrade's ear.

He squeezed Lestrade's hand tightly.

He couldn't be sure, and he thought he must have imagined it, but he could have sworn he felt Lestrade squeeze back.

Lestrade was whisked away to the waiting helicopter leaving Sherlock and Mycroft in its windy wake. John was still being checked out and Sherlock had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at how terrible a patient the doctor was being. Mycroft caught Sherlock's barely hidden grin.

"Don't laugh. That's exactly what you sound like when someone's checking on you."

"Sir?" the medic appeared behind them, a slightly pouty John in tow. "We're ready to go."

"What about _this_?" asked Sherlock, motioning to the house behind them and the whole damned town in front of them.

Mycroft's mouth drew into a thin line of contempt. "I have a team on its way who will oversee the investigation. We will find anyone and everyone who has ever been involved with what is going on here. In the meantime, those two," – he jerked his head towards two men dressed in black and armed to the teeth—"will stay here. Just in case."

They settled into the helicopter, hardly daring to believe that they were making it out alive. As the helicopter raised high into the air, Sherlock watched the town until it was nothing but a bad memory in the distance.

* * *

If the world had slowed to a crawl in their last moments in the town of Damread, then it had started moving faster to catch up the moment they landed at the hospital. Sherlock watched in amusement as Mycroft threw his considerable authority around, barking orders and demanding answers and scaring staff. He then rattled off something about checking on Lestrade, clapped Sherlock on the shoulder, and disappeared into the fray.

John had been standing beside him when suddenly a wave of doctors and nurses washed over them. Sherlock felt a pang of panic as John was swept up in the pandemonium and disappeared from Sherlock's side.

He liked being alone. Thrived on it even. But right now, being alone was paralyzing him. First Lestrade. Then Mycroft. Now John. One by one they had each left him. What if they never came back? What if he was truly alone? Not by choice but by circumstance?

The lines began to blur. The colors melted and swirled like a Van Gogh. The faces in front of him fell and fractured like a Picasso. Voices hummed and buzzed until they reached a crescendo.

The world began to spin faster and faster, like a merry-go-round out of control.

Then the world went dark.


	7. Waking the Dead

**Author's Note: Well, this just took me an unreasonably long time to finish, didn't it? Mea culpa. I was stuck on how to end it; truth be told, I'm still not sure that I'm fully satisfied with it. **

**Thanks for reading and happy writing!**

* * *

_All alone, but still I hear their yearning__  
__Through the dark, the moon alone there, burning__  
__The stars, too, they tell of spring returning__  
__And summer with another wind that no one yet has known_

_~from __Spring Awakening__, "Those You've Known"_

There is an instant when you first wake up, just before your brain has a chance to flood you with your memories, your burdens, your sorrows, when everything is perfect. In that moment, nothing can be wrong.

But the moment never lasts.

Sherlock sat bolt upright in the hospital bed (_Bed? When did end up in a bed? Dammit. How long had he been out?_). He had been awake less than ten seconds before he was swinging his long legs to the floor.

Eyes still clouded with the remnants of unconsciousness, he felt the firm hands on his chest before he registered who they belonged to. He batted them away impatiently.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was level.

"Out of my way," Sherlock growled, still pushing to get past, frustrated at his body's refusal to cooperate with his mind.

The elder Holmes rarely had the physical upper hand but was exploiting Sherlock's weakened state to his full advantage.

"_Move_ Mycroft," Sherlock said, resenting his brother in that moment. "Lestrade. John-"

"Are fine," interrupted Mycroft smoothly.

Sherlock's struggles ceased. The tightness that had been building in his chest began to ebb and was replaced with a cautious hope.

"They're..." he faltered.

"Fine," Mycroft confirmed. "John is just getting his arm set; he'll join you when he's done."

"And Lestrade?"

Mycroft's face grew slightly more somber. "Alive."

"'Alive' is not a synonym for 'fine'," snapped Sherlock.

"Fair enough but it is certainly the most desirable outcome, given the alternative."

"Where is he? Can I see him?"

Mycroft shook his head. "He's out of surgery. The infection is under control but he hasn't regained consciousness yet. But-" he hastened to add, "-there's no reason to believe he won't. It's simply a waiting game at this point."

Sherlock was about to launch into all the reasons why he thought he should be allowed to go anyways when John walked through the door.

He looked exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes. His pale complexion made the bruise on his forehead seem even more grotesque. His arm was encased in a heavy cast and held close to his chest by a sling.

Sherlock finally succeeded in getting past Mycroft (though he suspected his brother let him by) and closed the gap between he and John in two long strides. His eyes scanned John quickly, as though he might find something the doctors missed. John indulged him until it went on a second too long and got awkward.

"Alright, enough. I'm okay."

"You're sure?" asked Sherlock.

"If I wasn't, you'd figure it out anyways."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I've arranged for you two to stay at the local inn. There's a car waiting out front."

"Like hell," said John forcefully. Mycroft merely peered at him mildly. Apparently, this vehement refusal was exactly what he'd been expecting.

"We're not leaving until Lestrade is awake," continued John, "and we can see for ourselves that he's alright."

"You can't do anything here," said Mycroft in an unusually gentle voice. "You need your rest, both of you. Go, get some sleep. The car will bring you back in the morning."

"What if he wakes up in the middle of the night?" challenged John. "He shouldn't have to wake up alone."

"He won't," replied Mycroft simply. With a curt nod at his brother, he strode off, the lone watchman.

John gave Sherlock a bemused grin. "Reckon he could almost pass for human if he keeps that up."

Sherlock laugh-snorted. "Let's go," he said, patting John's good shoulder.

* * *

Their room at the inn was small but it was clean and, more importantly, free of any stuffed dead animals. The owner had been apologetic about only being able to provide a single room but Sherlock had been secretly grateful. He didn't much feel like being alone right now.

Mycroft had managed to procure a change of clothes for each of them ("Honestly, is he a wizard?" asked John in appreciative disbelief) and had food waiting for them on their arrival.

Despite being bone-weary and ravenously hungry, John had other priorities. "I'm going to wash up - least, best I can with this bloody cast on," he said, eager to wash away as much of the experience as he could.

Sherlock nodded absently, adrift in the sea of his own thoughts.

He lasted until the sound of the shower running broke the dam within him. He slumped to the floor, leaning against the foot of the bed, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. _Panic attack_, he thought. His pulse vibrated like the aftershock of an earthquake, his hands trembled like the wings of a hummingbird, his body throbbed like a bass line.

The reality of their experience finally caught up with him. Until now, it had lagged behind as he pressed doggedly forward in the effort to survive. But now, the ravaging storm gave way to stark clarity. That was so close. Too close. They could have died. They should have died. And for once, his cleverness hadn't done a damn thing. He couldn't have saved them. He was not infallible. He was not invincible.

He didn't know how long he sat there, the minutes slipping by. He was too fixated on what might have been. What almost was.

John had been about to sing the praises of a shower and a change of clothes but the words died on his lip when he came out and saw his flat mate sitting on the floor, knees drawn to his chest, looking for all the world like a lost little boy. He hadn't thought anything would shock him anymore but Sherlock's defeated posture proved him wrong.

He moved slowly, as if approaching a baby deer that might spook if he advanced too quickly. He sat down quietly beside Sherlock, just close enough that their shoulders barely touched.

And then waited. He'd always wait for Sherlock. Three years or three minutes, it didn't matter. He waited for Sherlock to find his voice. Whenever Sherlock was ready to share what was raging inside that magnificent brain of his, John would be there.

Sherlock didn't acknowledge John's presence, just stared straight ahead as his confession came tumbling out in an agonized whisper.

"I thought you were dead. I thought Lestrade was dead. I assumed I would never see Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft again. For a minute, for one terrible minute, everyone that matters to me in this world was, for all intents and purposes, dead."

His head dropped into his hands. It was a rare vulnerability.

Sherlock wasn't looking for casual reassurances or platitudes to try and ease his troubled mind. He was releasing his burden onto the only person that he trusted to help shoulder the load.

"It's been a terrible trip," John offered.

Sherlock slowly raised his head to look at John. That sentence - that beautifully simple sentence - said it all.

_I was scared too._

_Not your fault._

_We'll be okay._

Sherlock began to laugh. They both did. It was a tangle of hysteria and joy and relief. It was the laughter of survival. In spite of everything, they had survived.

"Come on then," said John, dragging himself to his feet and extending his uninjured hand to Sherlock. "Let's get some sleep so we can head back to the hospital tomorrow."

Sherlock caught a glimpse of his reflection and grimaced. "If Lestrade wakes up to this -" he gestured to his visage, "- he's apt to think that he died and didn't get accepted into Heaven."

"Hate to tell you, but if you're the first person he sees, he might think that anyways," John said dryly as Sherlock scowled at him.

As they settled in, and on the fringe of sleep, Sherlock's voice came through the darkness, raw and honest.

"I'm glad you're not dead."

John smiled even though he knew Sherlock couldn't see it. "Good night, Sherlock."

* * *

Feeling well-rested and reasonably human again, they were back at the hospital before the morning sun had a chance to finish rising.

When they arrived at Lestrade's room they saw that they were not the only ones awake with the birds. Mycroft was perched in an uncomfortable looking faux-leather chair, working on his mobile phone. Still impeccably groomed, the creases around his eyes belied the truth. He rose to greet them at the door, casting a quick glance at the sleeping figure behind him before speaking.

"Did you get some sleep?" he asked, sounding very much like a protective older brother.

"We did. And you obviously got none," observed Sherlock.

Mycroft shifted and became very interested in the tiles on the floor. "I didn't want to be asleep if he woke up."

He had forgone sleep, putting Lestrade's needs ahead of his own. The brothers Holmes never ceased to amaze John. For all their posturing and emotional distance, they were, at their core, strikingly compassionate.

"Did he?" asked John. "Wake up, I mean?"

"He stirred a few times but no, not yet."

"Not a surprise - between the anesthetic from surgery, his body fighting the infection, and just plain exhaustion, he needs the rest," John mused, more to himself than anyone else.

Mycroft's mouth curled into what could almost pass as a smile. "On that note, Doctor Watson, I'm going to take my leave."

"Going to get some rest?" Though he tried to hide it, this time it was Sherlock's voice that was undercut with fraternal concern.

"There will be time for that later. Right now, I want to get back to Damread and oversee the investigation and cleanup."

"Any word on anyone else who may have been involved yet?" asked John.

Mycroft's face hardened. "Not yet. But my people will sniff them out."

"And?"

"You don't really want to know," Mycroft answered darkly. John almost shivered at the look in Mycroft's eyes. It was the same contained rage he had seen in Sherlock's the day before.

With that, he cast one last glance at Lestrade before striding down the hall with his purposeful precision.

John and Sherlock exchanged grim looks as they entered the dimly lit room. Sherlock assumed Mycroft's post and John snagged a similarly hard chair from the corner.

The seating arrangement might have been less than ideal but Mycroft had made sure they were otherwise cared for. His people dropped off enough reading material to fill a small library and ensured that food (noticeably not from the hospital cafeteria) made its way to them.

John had drifted off again as the hours ticked by but Sherlock, like his brother before him, sat alert, on guard. It was his own form of penance, trying to atone for dragging Lestrade into this plight.

A low moan drew him closer to the man's bedside as he unceremoniously shook John awake.

"Lestrade? Can you hear me?"

Another groan came from cracked lips.

"He's definitely fine; that's a normal response to hearing your voice," said John with a yawn.

"Not everybody groans when they see me," protested Sherlock.

"Not to your face, no. He's obviously bolder than most."

"And you're both obviously fine," Lestrade's voice interrupted them, his voice scratchy and foreign, "since you're back to bickering like an elderly couple."

Smiles filled John and Sherlock's faces at the sound of his voice. He was alert and aware and sounding an awful lot like his usual self. Lestrade forced his eyes open and their smiles grew even larger at the sight.

"It almost looks like you're happy to see me," mumbled Lestrade. "I must be in really terrible shape."

"How do you feel?" asked John.

Lestrade pondered for a moment, doing a mental inventory and assessment. "Terrible. And yet, never better. Given the alternative would be not feeling anything, I don't think I'm going to complain."

A million words were written in the lines around Sherlock's eyes, a volume of prose crying out to be shared. John could read his friend's expression easily and quietly excused himself to go and get the doctor.

Suddenly alone, with the chance to say everything he wanted to say, Sherlock found himself unable to say anything at all. Lestrade sensed this and, with effort tempered by weariness, reached out to cover the consulting detective's hand with his own.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. Sherlock's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. He wasn't used to being on the receiving end of observations. It was somewhat disquieting.

"You're not the only one who notices things," Lestrade continued. "A blind man could see you're sitting there, thinking that this was your fault."

"Because it was," Sherlock choked out, voice thick with guilt.

Lestrade used what little strength he could muster to shake his head. "If we hadn't gone there, those monsters would have kept on doing what they were doing and no one would have ever known. Think about how many lives you saved."

"I'm too busy thinking about the ones I almost lost," Sherlock barely whispered.

"Sherlock. I'm alive. John is alive. This is a good day."

"Then why doesn't it feel like it?" came Sherlock's grim reply.

"Because you just walked through Hell and seen the very worst of people. That has a way of wreaking havoc on a person. And it's okay not to be okay right now."

Sherlock didn't reply. Lestrade gripped his hand tighter. "You saved my life," he said quietly. "I won't forget that."

"You saved mine. And John's. And you did it with a bullet in your side and a raging infection," Sherlock replied.

"It's not a pissing match you know," said Lestrade with a small huff of laughter.

A tension suddenly spread across the room, like the long shadows of twilight.

"I was terrified," admitted Lestrade softly, twisting the itchy hospital blanket between his fingers. A flash of fear clouded his eyes as hostile memories crept in before he could suppress them.

They were quiet for a moment. Then-

"I was terrified too," admitted Sherlock. It was a rare admission of weakness. But he knew Lestrade needed to hear it as much as he needed to say it. Say the words, make it real.

They were interrupted then by the doctor who shooed John and Sherlock out of the room so she could check on Lestrade. They waited impatiently outside the door and practically pounced when she emerged. She assured them that Lestrade was going to make a full recovery and would likely be released within the week.

It finally sank in that they were, at last, safe.

* * *

_**EPILOGUE**_

"There's still one thing I don't understand," Lestrade said, two days later. He was sitting up in bed, trying to ignore the discomfort in his side. John and Mycroft had gone off in search of coffee that didn't taste like finely ground dirt, leaving Sherlock to fidget about. He was unaccustomed to this sort of monotonous down time, and he didn't particularly care for it, but it never crossed his mind to leave.

"What's that?" he asked Lestrade, leaning back in his chair, propping his feet on the bed, knowing the patient wouldn't be able to reach down and push them away.

"The watches," Lestrade said. Sherlock looked at him quizzically. "Our watches stopped, remember?" pressed Lestrade. "You said it wasn't a coincidence."

"It wasn't," said Sherlock.

"So, then, what was it?" Lestrade was looking at him expectantly, assuming that (as always) he'd have the answer.

Except he didn't. Sherlock had actually been wondering about the strange…_phenomenon_, for lack of better term in recent days. Usually he found himself ruminating over it in the late hours of the night, when boredom and flashbacks competed for top spot in his mind.

"I don't know," he admitted, the words bitter on his tongue.

"What?" asked Lestrade, certain that he must have misheard.

Sherlock sighed. "I don't know," he repeated. "It's the only thing I haven't been able to figure out."

"Did Mycroft find anything that could explain it?"

"Nothing. I even specifically asked him to see if he could find an answer."

"And he came up empty-handed too?" asked Lestrade, marveling that both the Holmes brothers were stumped by this particular mystery.

"It seems like it," he said.

He stared ahead, trying (and failing) to ignore the fact he could feel Lestrade looking at him. He shifted his gaze and glared at Lestrade, who was grinning cheekily at him. "What?" Sherlock snapped in exasperation.

"The legends are _true_," he trilled, like a little boy at Christmas.

"Oh for God's sakes," huffed Sherlock. "_That's_ your conclusion? No wonder you call on me so often - your deductive reasoning is terrible."

"Well it can't be explained away by logic and reason, so why can't it be part of the great mystery of the town?"

"What great mystery?" Sherlock grumbled, more annoyed by this theory than he should be. "The legends weren't true. We figured out what happened to the townspeople and explained all the subsequent disappearances. No mystery."

"But you can't account for years of spontaneous nosebleeds and stopped watches, can you? If you can't explain it, then it is, by definition, still a mystery," Lestrade said, sounding almost gleeful that there was something that the great Sherlock Holmes was unable to figure out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and picked up a random book from the pile on the bedside table.

"Admit it," urged Lestrade. "Admit that there's something there that can't be explained. Admit that maybe, just maybe, there's a little grain of truth to the stories about that place being haunted."

"I'll admit no such thing," said Sherlock dismissively. "Keep this up and I'm going to have your doctor move you to the psychiatric ward, because clearly, you've lost your mind."

He opened the book, staring at the page but not seeing the words.

It couldn't be true, of course. There was no lingering mystery.

It was just a coincidence, that's all.

It had to be.

There are no coincidences.

There is reality and there is fiction. They intersect and intertwine. Reality fuels stories and the stories become reality.

There are monsters under the bed. There are creatures in the shadows. There is always something watching. Sometimes they're wildly fantastical; other times they are chillingly familiar.

There are people. There are spirits. There is residual energy, of lives snuffed out too soon. They linger behind, trying to warn those still living to not to make the mistakes that they did. The voices of the past reach out to the present, to the future that they were denied. If we're smart, we heed the warnings.

But more often, we ignore it; write it off.

_Just another coincidence._


End file.
